


Just A Little Sharp

by kissesfromkrug



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Denial of Feelings, Enemies to Lovers, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Masturbation, Tumblr Prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-23
Updated: 2017-06-23
Packaged: 2018-11-17 07:41:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,529
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11271072
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kissesfromkrug/pseuds/kissesfromkrug
Summary: My version of: "You’re that one guy that won’t stop playing after the conductor cuts us off and it really pisses me off”





	Just A Little Sharp

**Author's Note:**

> Not for profit, fictional; feel free to point out any typos. :) Please.

"Oh my  _god_ ," Dylan huffs quietly, setting his violin on his knee and glaring at the winds. "Him. _Again_."

"Who?" Connor asks, leaning over from the first violins as the conductor rehearses a particularly difficult phrase with the cellos.

Dylan just gave him a bored look, leaning back in his chair in the front of his section next to Connor - well, it's not  _really_ next to him, technically, not when everyone's staring at Connor and his stand partner who so happens to be the concert master.

It used to get on Dylan's nerves that he was always being praised after Connor, stuck in his shadow no matter how hard he tried. Still bothers him a little, if he thinks really hard about it.

"The clarinetist?"

"No, the other dumbass who plays for two whole measures after we've stopped," Dylan replies, pursing his lips as said clarinetist catches his eye and winks. He sneers and turns back to Connor, who's got one eyebrow raised. Another thing Connor's better at than him.

"He's just messing around, cut him some slack," Connor says easily, and before Dylan can retort angrily and say that  _no, someone's gotta show that inconsiderate asshole a lesson_ , the conductor waves his arms at the entire orchestra. 

"Measure 71, everyone." Dylan grits his teeth and brings his violin back up under his chin, eyes on the conductor. There's a honking sound from the middle of the winds, and the entire section bursts out laughing.

"I swear to _god_ ," Dylan growls, and Connor looks like he wants to give Dylan a warm hug, a serious lecture, and a cookie. He would, in all honesty. Not that he'd make the cookies, but still.

It doesn't even matter where Connor would get any of those things - and Dylan doesn't want them right now anyway; he's angry and he wants to punch the stupid clarinetist in his stupid face.

"Sorry sir, just a little malfunction while I was cleaning my clarinet," the guy says, his friend snickering from the seat to his left.

"Make sure it's silent next time you mess up," the conductor warns, and the clarinetist laughs brightly, a stupid smile stretching from ear to ear and nearly splitting his rosy cheeks.

"Got it." Dylan wants to punch his annoyingly cute face. Dumb face. Whatever.

• • •

"Dyls, really?" Dylan hasn't even sat down and he's already glaring daggers at the empty chair in the middle of the clarinets. "He's not even here yet."

"I don't have to see him to hate him."

"You don't have to hate him just 'cause he's stupid. There's millions of idiots in the world."

"He's immature and annoying and frustrating _and_ I'm repulsed by stupidity!" Dylan explodes, and his stand partner sends him a concerned look. Dylan grips his violin tightly in his lap and turns fully to face Connor.

"You can't let it get to you," Connor says, and Dylan huffs. He looks up to see a bright blue sweatshirt streak across the room and plop in the empty chair. "You should tell him how his immature actions make you upset and-"

"Some people here are actually serious about music!"

"Yeah, sure, go with that." Dylan tightens his bow as the concertmaster comes and sits next to Connor.

"I don't wanna fucking talk to him." Connor rolls his eyes. 

"Then deal with him for three and a half more months and switch to chamber music or whatever."

" _No_ , I'm not gonna switch out, are you serious?"

"Dylan-"

"Whatever," Dylan grumbles angrily, pulling the music out of his folder and facing forward again. There's a crash, and everyone looks up to see none other than Annoying Clarinet, his stand on the ground and pages scattered across the floor. His head is thrown back in laughter, pink tongue visible between pearly whites. He's got dark, soft-looking hair nicely framing his nice face.

Dumb hair. Dumb face.

"Dumbass."

The conductor just shakes his head as he steps up to the podium, leafing through his score as the orchestra members get settled.

"We'll be starting on the Mozart today, oboes, I'm concerned about the melody line you four have alone at rehearsal C, would you mind playing that for me?" Good thing Annoying Clarinet doesn't play the oboe, or else it would ruin such a beautiful instrument.

"Good, eh?" Connor pokes Dylan's knee with the tip of his bow, and Dylan shrugs.

"We're better," he says casually, the conductor stopping the oboes as one of the seconds gets a beat ahead.

"Their part is probably harder."

"Probably not."

"Harder than yours, I'd say," Connor says, peering at Dylan's music. "But harder than your head? Probably not."

"Fuck off."

"But they do sound good."

"Not as good as us," Dylan insists, and Connor sighs. 

"You can't really compare them." He glances over as the trio of clarinets play their part alone, hearing one particular voice that's different than the rest.

"It's him, he's fucking it up again, oh my god," Dylan complains softly, rubbing his eye with the heel of his hand.

"It's called being first clarinet, dumbass."

"How did _he_ get first?"

"He's good at playing _and_ pissing people off, I guess," Connor shrugs. Dylan snorts in disbelief. "Or maybe he could've, like, bribed his way in."

"That's gotta be it," Dylan says, knowing that it'll only bother Connor more. Unfortunately, Connor is generally unflappable, so Dylan hardly ever gets a real reaction out of him. "And isn't there usually more than one per part?"

"The girl is sick today, so he's on double duty." Dylan watches Annoying Clarinet, narrowing his eyes at the guy's insanely red puffed cheeks, long hair (damn, it's hotter than it should be) curling around his ears and falling over his forehead. Dylan is jealous of his mostly clear skin, making a mental note to add it to his growing list of reasons to hate the guy.

 _Fuck, stop, shut up, brain_. Dylan bites his lip and doesn't look away as Annoying Clarinet perfectly ascends the two octave arpeggio and finishes the segment on a trill ending on the leading tone. Dylan is admittedly impressed, except for-

"That last eighth is an E-flat, not D," the conductor tells him, and Annoying Clarinet leans forward to jot it down on his music.

"See?" Dylan hisses to Connor, still watching the winds closely. "He sucks."

• • •

It's during their 40 minute break, on a particularly overcast day halfway through November, that Dylan notices something odd.

"Since when did he look like that?" He says to Connor, gesturing to Annoying Clarinet, who's animatedly talking in the middle of the green with the horns and making them all wheeze with laughter. He can't be _that_ funny.

"Who?" Dylan sends Connor a bored look across the picnic table. "Oh, the guy you've been obsessing over since the first day, right?"

"I have _not_!"

"Don't even try that on me," Connor warns. "And what do you mean?"

"He, uh..." Dylan waves his hand around in Annoying Clarinet's general direction, hoping Connor will get the point. Although Connor is quite intuitive, he can't read minds.

"Gotta elaborate for me, bud."

"His face! Like, when did it look like that?" Dylan asks, taking a long sip of his water while not breaking his stare.

"You mean, when did he get hot?" Dylan feels his cheeks flush, and he wipes his face with a tissue to try and disguise it.

"What? No, fuck no, he's not hot." Connor grins into his mini chip bag, and Dylan kicks his shin under the table. "Don't tell me _you_ think he's hot, that's just gross."

"You're lying," Connor says instead, choosing to challenge Dylan. "And by the way, he's not too bad."

"He's an idiot that doesn't give a shit about anyone else, how can that be hot?" Dylan asks incredulously, wondering how he's supposed to be the wiser best friend.

"Face doesn't always match personality, like you." Connor tilts his water at Dylan, who throws the balled up tissue at him.

"So am I hot or am I nice?" Connor cringes.

"Neither." Dylan huffs as Connor chuckles, eyeing him amusedly. "Just kidding, you know you're beautiful," he adds. Just like that, Dylan's dignity is restored. Mostly.

They eat the rest of their lunch in relative silence, Connor having an unusually chatty moment as he talks about the Maple Leafs. Then again, all he does outside of school is watch hockey - and rant about it to his ignorant friends. Dylan wishes he could get as into it as Connor.

When they finally return to the music hall, Dylan feels his heart skip a beat as he sees Annoying Clarinet standing next to his chair. The worst part? He has the nerve to try to play Dylan's violin. 

"Um, sorry to interrupt, but what the fuck are you doing?" He says bluntly once he gets within a foot of his stand. Annoying Clarinet looks up and smiles, plucking at the strings and unfortunately not sounding too awful.

"Just wanted to try it out." He's got maroon skinny jeans on ( _nice ass_ , he thinks absently) with a gray sweatshirt that makes him look even more cuddly. Dylan can't say he hates it - not at all, in fact - which makes him hate the guy even more.

"Next time you can fucking ask." Dylan takes the instrument out of his surprisingly big hands and sits down, making sure it isn't damaged.

"Sorry about that, guess I should've watched where I put my hands." Dylan absolutely refuses to acknowledge the innuendo. "So you're pretty good if you sit up here, right?"

"Damn right," Dylan says shortly, putting some more rosin on his bow to give it more grip on the strings.

"Me too." Dylan wants to punch him in his hot and stupid and talented face.

"Great."

"I'm Mitch, by the way, from Thornhill, it's just north of here," Annoying Clarinet says, sticking out his hand. Dylan pretends not to see it.

"That's nice." His smile falters, but Connor leans over and shakes his hand. 

"Nice to meet you," Connor says, and Annoying Clarinet - Mitch - brightens up immediately.  _Someone_ loves making new friends. "I'm Connor. You said Thornhill?" Mitch nods proudly, and Connor smiles warmly at him. Dylan feels another flicker of anger in his chest, this one being for the fact that Connor would smile at _Mitch_ like that. That's supposed to be his Dylan-only smile.

"You from around here too?"

"Richmond Hill." Mitch's jaw drops for a second before he says excitedly,

"No way! Dude, how did I not run into you? We lived, like, next door to each other!" Connor - still with his Dylan-only smile on, Dylan notes with frustration - shrugs.

"I probably passed you at the mall or on the street or something." Mitch wrinkles his nose, the only time Dylan's seen him not smiling - except while playing his annoying instrument.

"Nah, the mall's not really my scene," Mitch says in a lower-pitched voice - god _damn_ \- and Dylan really wants him to leave, like, five minutes ago.

"What do you do besides this, then?" Connor waves his hand at the room full of musicians.

"Watch sports, mostly." Connor brightens up even more, asking,

"D'you like hockey?"

"Well  _duh_ , who doesn't? What kinda question is that?" Mitch scoffs good-naturedly. It's seriously pissing Dylan off that this guy thinks he can just steal his best friend just 'cause they grew up in the same area and like hockey.

"Maple Leafs?"

"Obviously." Mitch pulls up his sweatshirt, and Dylan sees a hint of the Toronto logo stamped on the front of his shirt. He firmly tells himself to ignore the sliver of pale skin between the contrasting blue and maroon. His eyes don't get the memo.

"Dude, that's awesome!" Dylan hasn't seen Connor this excited since Dylan bought them dinner and they got to watch a playoff game on the outdoor big screen. Connor fist bumps Mitch, violin in his other hand as they grin at each other.

"Aren't you supposed to be over there?" Dylan grumbles, and the moment is broken.

"And this grumpy ass is Dylan," Connor says. Mitch beams at him, and Dylan pretends to be seriously invested in rearranging his music.

"At least one of you is nice," he says cheerily, but before Dylan can sass him back, Mitch is already back in his regular seat.

"What the hell is your problem?" Connor asks, a deep frown on his face as he retightens his bow.

"That _idiot_."

"Well, he seemed pretty nice to me, so you're running out of reasons to hate him." Dylan opens his mouth, but Connor continues, "No, seriously, he's super happy, he's friendly, and he likes hockey. All I need in a new friend, no offense."

"What the fuck, Davo?" Even more reasons to hate-

"I think I need a friend to be the exact opposite of you, don't you think? And voilà! I think I found one. Just to balance things out, you know?" Dylan doesn't know.

"Well, he's stupid and he does stupid shit all the time, how can I _not_ hate him?" Dylan retorts after a moment of thought.

"Maybe if you didn't pay so much attention to him, he wouldn't bother you as much," Connor thinks aloud. Dylan kicks him again and snorts.

"Unlikely."

He almost loses it when Mitch makes another stupid honking noise, the bassoonist copying him as they lean over in their chairs, choking with laughter. Mitch's friend is light-haired and square-jawed, sporting a muscular body and light blue eyes. Another person to glare at.

Dylan glances between the two of them with narrowed eyes, noting how different they seem to be from each other, yet they somehow share the same stupid sense of humor.

How immature.

• • •

Mitch's eyes are really, _really_ blue. Dylan hates that he knows this, and his only excuse lies in the fact that every day they have rehearsal, the second Mitch walks in the door, he immediately finds his way over to talk to Connor.

Dylan spends his time as a third wheel friend texting or tuning his violin multiple times so he doesn't listen in on their conversations. What could Mitch possibly say that would get him interested?

"Yeah, that was such a sick glove save - and then - yes! Oh, then - yeah that was sick - they went all the way back - he backhanded it right past - yeah! That's the dopest thing I've seen all year!" Dylan's not very good at tuning out Mitch.

"Did you see the OT winner though?" Connor asks excitedly. Dylan's feeling a little mixed about his emotions toward Mitch. He makes Connor really happy, which is endearing by itself - but he's loud and frustrating and rubs Dylan the wrong way.

"Oh my _god_ , did I see it! Fucking phe _nom_ enal! What a goal - if it's not on the highlight reels by-"

"Oh I know, right?" Dylan proceeds to glare at them for almost a minute before Connor notices. If looks could kill, Mitch would be in his grave by now.

"Ahem." Dylan's voice sounds dull and unamused, and surprisingly, Mitch actually gets the memo to leave.

"See you at break!" Mitch gives Connor a little wave, sending a sharp look at Dylan. He sucks in a breath through his teeth.

"Can you not go all heart-eyed on him around me, 'cause that would be just great," he says.

" _Me_?" Connor asks. "You think _I'm_ smitten?"

"Considering how you talk every fucking day and you never want to leave each other, I'd say I'm right," Dylan snaps.

"Jealous much?" Dylan stops to think. Jealous of who, though? It's embarrassing that it takes him more than five seconds to realize the answer.

"No."

"You wish he liked you."

"No I don't, he's a-"

"Okay, you think he's a stupid idiot - for what reason, I don't know - but he's really nice, and I know you think he's hot," Connor interrupts. "Hey, at least I don't deny it."

"Wait, you-" Dylan gapes at him, but Connor shakes his head.

"I'm not interested, so he's all yours."

"I don't _wanna_ date him!" Dylan protests loudly, just as the conductor waves for silence. Dylan's face turns beet red as he turns back forward, head bowed as he hears scattered snickers. He can't help but look back at Mitch, who's staring him down intently. Dylan feels his neck prickle with heat as he jerks back around and stares at his shoes.

"Nice," Connor whispers. Dylan doesn't look up. 

They're halfway through the piece when the conductor waves again, and Dylan curses to himself as he misses a high G. However, it goes unnoticed as Mitch continues to play with his fellow clarinets, and the bassoonist elbows him. "Whoopsie." Everyone laughs, and Mitch manages to look proud of himself and sheepish all at once.

Dylan realizes that he can see the blue of Mitch's eyes from his seat, and he's transfixed until someone snaps in front of his face. He looks up to see the conductor raising an eyebrow. "Ready, Strome?"

"Yeah, sorry."

• • •

"Whoops!" All of a sudden, as Connor and Dylan turn the corner, there's a sudden Mitch appearance.

"Shit!" Dylan sprawls backwards, barely saved by Connor, who was walking a mere foot behind him.

"Sorry guys, didn't see ya there," Mitch chirps, and Dylan refuses to meet his eye.

"It's fine, it's as much our fault as yours," Connor says casually. Dylan mutters a few choice words, and by the look on Mitch's face, he most definitely heard him. The fact that Mitch didn't challenge him only makes Dylan more angry.

Mitch holds the door for them, Connor now walking in front of Dylan. Dylan knocks shoulders with Mitch, who grabs his wrist. His palm is warm and soft, and Dylan can't help the shiver. "Dude."

"Got a problem?" Dylan asks, wrenching his arm away and trying not to think about how Mitch's fingers brushed the back of his hand and sent tingles down his spine.

"Do _I_ have a problem?" Mitch says, incredulous. "Do _I_?"

Dylan is gone by then, and Mitch frowns. He'll just ask Connor what it means later by text; what Dylan's issue with him is.

Connor doesn't tell him.

Dylan ends up on his bed in his empty room, having kicked Connor out. Well, Connor had let himself out to do some Christmas shopping, which - a little early for that, no?

Dylan's comforter is in a heap at the foot of his bed, the blinds shut tight just in case. His feet are planted on the sheets, head pressing back into the pillow as he fucks up into the loose circle of his hand. He's forcing himself to go slow, draw it out to get out some of his pent-up frustrations.

All Dylan can hear are the slick sounds of his lube-covered hand stroking his cock, his heavy breathing in the otherwise silent room, heart thumping in his ears. His thumb ghosts over the head, and he bucks his hips up and lets out a small whine.

He usually has his set fantasies, but today his brain decided to provide him with something new.

He sees Mitch's dark lips as he talks to Connor, the curve of his ass in his skinny jeans, the innocent look on his face whenever he makes a mistake. Dylan sees the way his eyes twinkle in the light, bluer than the sky on a cloudless day.

He sees Mitch's smile out-shining the sun, even during the shittiest of weather. He can see Mitch's deft fingers pressing down the keys of his not-so-stupid instrument. He can even feel the phantom brush of Mitch's fingers over his hand from earlier in the day.

Dylan's mind then, predictably, takes all the sensory images of Mitch that he's collected over the months and turns them upside down - and by upside down, Dylan means dirty as hell. He squeezes the base of his cock to keep himself from tumbling over the edge, letting out a sharp gasp at the sudden vivid pictures in his head.

He pictures grabbing Mitch's ass and pulling down those ridiculously tight jeans, smacking his ass until it's red-hot. He pictures sucking on Mitch's long fingers, moving down to suck his dick to make him cry. He pictures staring into Mitch's eyes as he slowly jerks them off together, Mitch knocking away his hand and jacking them both hard and fast.

He can see Mitch's lips wrapped around his own cock, hand twisted in Mitch's long hair as he chokes. He sees Mitch stripping for him and laying down on Dylan's childhood bed, spreading his legs in anticipation.

Dylan moans loudly and shamelessly, giving up his slow and steady pace to jerk his cock fast and tight. He can almost feel Mitch's wet heat clenching around his fingers, and Dylan's hand goes up his chest to pinch all over, at his nipples, his sides, and his stomach. He imagines doing it to Mitch, fucking deep into his waiting, writhing body, determined to make him feel better than he ever has with anyone.

Dylan can see himself holding onto Mitch's hips so tightly they bruise, can see Mitch bent over the bathroom sink, their eyes meeting in the mirror. He sees his hands stroking over Mitch's trembling body as he babbles out pleas to _keep going, please please please, don't stop, don't stop, I need it, I want it so bad._

"Oh, fuck,  _Mitch_ ," Dylan groans loudly in the emptiness of his room, the word slipping out of his mouth without permission. He pinches hard on the inside of his thigh and tugs twice more on his dick before he releases all over his chest. He feels like he's been electrocuted, all the muscles in his body going limp as his eyes fall open.

His hand is sticky and his body shakes as he comes down from the high, white spots fading from his hazy vision. He really should get up to clean himself off before Connor gets back.

Dylan stares at the ceiling, heart still racing as he can hear the echo of Mitch's begging. His eyes slowly slide shut again, the images of Mitch bent over the counter, then of his swollen red lips, stamped onto the back of his eyelids.

Dylan wishes he could see Mitch walking around campus in his nice-ass jeans, pun definitely intended. Unfortunately, he has to stick to imagining it, creating a mental picture of Mitch swinging his hips and looking to Dylan with a question in his eye that Dylan wouldn't be able to refuse.

He might piss Dylan off, but that doesn't mean he's not hot and Dylan can't get off thinking about him.

Dylan makes a soft noise of despair, flinging his clean arm over his eyes. His phone buzzes from the side table, but his brain is too fried to have the energy to reach it. If it's not important, it'll wait. If it is...it'll still need to wait.

Dylan needs some time to figure out some shit.

• • •

Dylan has had e-fucking-nough of Mitch's antics by the time Christmas rolls around - never mind his mental breakdown over Mitch holding onto his wrist. They have a four week break, but neither he nor Connor go anywhere, minus a few days with their families around the actual holiday.

 _December 29th_ , Dylan thinks, lounging in his dorm room with a beer in his hand. _What a random-ass day to get drunk_.

Halfway through the bottle, he gets a text from Connor.

_C: wanna do something? bored af_

_D: getting drunk in our room rn_

_C: stupid idea_

_C: come out w me :)_

_C: we can get some hot chocolate and go look at the pretty lights_

_C: sorry i abandoned u today :(_

_C: make up for it??_

Maybe it's not the best day to get drunk. 

He slides off his bed and fumbles around for his shoes, hastily shoving them on when he gets the next message. 

_C: meet me on the green_

_D: u mean the white? its snowy as shit outside_

_C: hurry up_  

Dylan sticks his phone in his pocket and grabs a random fluffy winter hat, pulling it down over his ears. 

"Like the hat," Connor says, and Dylan squints through the lightly falling snow as he peers beyond his best friend. 

"Who-"

"Hey." It is not Mitch. It can't be. 

"I invited Mitch to go on a walk with us since all his friends left him for the week," Connor says in that voice that warns Dylan to be nice. He just rolls his eyes and falls in step, staying on the other side of Connor so as not to interact with Mitch.

"Windy day," Mitch observes, pulling his scarf over his mouth. "And nice hat, Dylan."

"It's Davo's."

"Still a nice hat."

"Thanks," Dylan gets out through gritted teeth.

Soon Connor mentions the rickety goaltending situation of Toronto, and him and Mitch launch into a conversation that allows Dylan to be alone with his thoughts for a few short moments. The wind blows just enough for their voices to be carried the opposite direction, snow still drifting down steadily.

Dylan looks over at Connor, who's waving his hands around energetically like nothing Dylan has ever seen. Mitch really brings out the expressive in him.

Dylan watches Mitch watch Connor with interest, Mitch's cheeks a pleasantly cherry red as puffs of air float up from his mouth. He's got a soft looking black winter coat and a Winter Classic Leafs hat - hold on.

Dylan touches his head self-consciously. They have the exact same hat. And no, it's not Connor's. He gave it to Dylan for Christmas, and he's worn it every day since then. Connor can't have done that on purpose...right?

Droplets of melted snow coat the hat and the wisps of hair poking out the sides and back, his nose pink and mouth moving faster than Dylan can process. God, why does he have to like this one?

"What do you wanna do?" Dylan blinks at Connor.

"Um." Dylan thinks for a moment. "Hot chocolate, right?" Connor's grin widens, and Mitch even smiles at Dylan.

"Nice idea, Dyls," he says, and Dylan stops where he is.

"Uh, no." The other two turn to look at him, standing in the few inch-deep snow.

"No what?"

"Don't call me that."

"But he does," Mitch points out, gesturing to Connor.

"I've also known him for years and we're roommates," Dylan says. "You don't count."

"Connor told me I could," Mitch challenges, puffing out his chest a little. Dylan now sends a disapproving look to Connor.

"Why the fuck would you do that?"

"Be friends," Connor answers simply.

"I don't fucking-"

"Yeah, okay, I get it, you hate me," Mitch says, all humor gone from his voice as it turns cold as ice. "We don't have to become friends, Connor, it's fine. I think you'd do better seeing us at separate times, since he can't even stand to _look_ at me."

"Are you serious?" Connor hisses, grabbing the back of Dylan's coat as Mitch stomps back the way they came. "Why can't you get along for ten minutes?"

Dylan stares at Connor for several seconds, who eventually grits his teeth and turns to run after Mitch. "Look-" Dylan grabs his bicep. "I can't - I don't know what my problem is, just-"

"You need to learn to work with people that aren't your type," Connor interrupts, and Dylan follows behind as they approach Mitch, who's sitting on a snowy bench with his head bowed.

"Marns." Mitch looks up and sees the two of them, jaw tightening as Dylan steps closer.

"Sorry," Dylan says, looking at the ground, and Connor steps back.

"You two can work this out like real adults, and I'll be over here." He gestures to the green. Dylan finally meets Mitch's striking blue eyes, expression laced with suspicion and frustration.

"I'm sorry, honest." It hurts Dylan to apologize, but when he thinks about how much he had to have hurt an upbeat Mitch, it doesn't seem so bad.

"That fucking stung."

"We never were friends."

"But we could've been!" Mitch exclaims, sitting up and crossing his arms. "But you had to go an be an ass about everything before I even told you my name!"

"First off, you're annoying as hell _and_ immature - I don't know why you can't just stay quiet like everyone else," Dylan says, now only a few feet from Mitch. "And you were holding my violin worth four thousand dollars!"

"Okay, the violin thing was warranted, I guess, but like - I'm immature? When you shun me and despise me from afar like I committed a personal crime against you?"

"Honestly, you're so fucking annoying."

"After months of staring at me from across the room, you say I'm annoying?" Mitch challenges, getting to his feet. "My face must not be that annoying then."

"Don't accuse me of actually thinking you're attractive. Don't flatter yourself," Dylan says, and Mitch is now mere inches from him, breath fogging up the air between them.

"I don't need to flatter myself when I have you."

"Shut up."

"Do you deny it?" Mitch asks, looking up into his eyes. Dylan never realized their height, but damn, it does something for him.

 _Of course I do_ is what Dylan wants to say, but all that comes out of his throat is a strangled noise resembling a no. His heart leaps in his chest with worry as Mitch says, "What?" Dylan averts his gaze and stares at Connor, who's watching them with interest from across the green.

"No."

"Really?" He says it in a tone that makes it sound sarcastic, and Dylan swallows hard.

"Doesn't mean I like you," Dylan says warningly, glancing back down at Mitch for a split second.

"People can be hot and annoying, but I don't think you think I'm annoying." Dylan's mind shifts to not too long ago, when Mitch and Connor were talking about hockey so energetically.

"I like...I like the fact that you make Connor so happy. He's never this excited unless he's around you. I just want him to be happy, and...you make him happy. You're happy all the time and...he just gets really, really happy...something I can't always do."

Mitch squints up at him. "So you love Connor?"

"We've been best friends for years, and that's what we'll stay," Dylan says steadily, gaining confidence. "He's not who..."

"Not who you want?" Mitch finishes. Dylan doesn't correct him. "Then who do you want? Me?"

Dylan suddenly can't breathe, heart in his throat and mind racing. He can't say he _loves_ Mitch, he doesn't even know if that's true. He can't say it, he can't he can't he can't, Mitch will hate him like he believed he hated Mitch for so long and-

"I think I love you," Dylan chokes out in almost a whimper. Mitch's eyes nearly bulge out of his head, and Dylan's stomach tightens painfully. "I mean - fuck, uh-" Dylan wrings his hands, turning away and trying not to hyperventilate. "Shit."

"Dyls."

"I can't-" Mitch grabs Dylan by the back of his coat, spinning him around and pressing their mouths together. Dylan gasps involuntarily, Mitch's hands on his shoulders keeping him steady as he stands on his toes.

Mitch licks at the seam of Dylan's lips, and Dylan whines and lets him in without resistance. "Holy shit," Dylan whispers when Mitch pulls back, lips even redder and eyes sparkling like diamonds.

"Can I call you that now? Can I call you Dyls?"

"Yeah, yeah, whatever you want," he answers quickly, and Mitch laughs, bright and warm in the gusting wind and swirling snow.

"Good to know you're obsessed with me," Mitch beams. "Couldn't take my hotness, huh?"

"Shut up or I'll take it back."

"You wouldn't." Dylan only shrugs and leans in again, letting Mitch's fingers twist through his hair that sticks out below the hat.

"I wouldn't," Dylan sighs, lips brushing Mitch's as he speaks. "You're too cute." He almost can't believe it's happening, can't believe he let himself fall for someone, fall for a guy - for Annoying Clarinet, on top of all that.

"Wanna go back to my room and make out?" Mitch says, eyes focused on Dylan's mouth.

"Yeah." Mitch steps back and tugs on his hand, and Dylan blurts out, "I used to call you Annoying Clarinet." Mitch only laughs. 

"I know. Connor told me."

"And-"

"I really thought you didn't like me till I talked to him...and now I know you were kinda into me and you didn't wanna admit it even though I'm irresistible." Dylan is surprised by his burst of intelligence. That really was how it went - but like hell, he's gonna admit it. "Internalized Mitchaphobia, eh?"

"I'm gonna kill him - and _no_ , that's so stupid, I wasn't afraid of liking you, I've been pissed at you since I met you." They both know it's a lie - the first part, at least.

"You've been pissed since you were born." That, however, is probably true.

Dylan is seriously kill Connor - or buy him a car and a fruit basket. Either one. 


End file.
